


To Force Someone's Hand

by Pilfer



Series: To Force Someone's Hand [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:45:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pilfer/pseuds/Pilfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things get out of hand and Dorian is a rather dab hand at Necromancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Idle Hands

“I’m afraid it completely slipped my mind that my introduction to you was to present myself as your tailor,” a touch of bitterness dressed his words as Dorian paused in the motion of picking out a book from the library’s shelves.

“I…. uh. Apologies, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“There I was, beating off those bothersome demons with nothing but my trusty needle. I’m sure you were very impressed,” the necromancer turned and finally took in the elf’s nervous demeanour. With a put upon sigh he leaned back against the shelf, “oh, don’t look like that. You’re simply not the first to assume such. It’s rather grating.”

“I see. But still… apologies.” Lavellan offered up a hesitant smile. “It was silly of me, you’ve saved me from making a fool of myself… I was going to ask Vivienne the same question.” The admission seemed to embarrass her somewhat if the colour of her ears were of any indication, no doubt one of these books would tell him. It wasn’t like they could offer up anything more relevant to any impending doom hanging over them all.

A corner of Dorian’s lips quirked up into a smirk. “I may know how to _wear_ clothes but designing them? That’s another thing. I can however tell you what is _not_ fashionable in Tevinter.” He raises his arms slightly, canting his hands upwards to draw attention to his own attire. “It’s white by the way.”

Lavellan seemed to look at him consideringly. “Doesn’t go very well with all the blood I suppose. You just can’t help being a rebel can you?”

His grin had to be forced a little, “take it as you will.”

Dorian drummed his fingers upon his chin in mock contemplation. “I could raise you up a tailor from the dead though. Of course the seams would be a little wonky, rigor mortis and all…. But it’s better than plaidweave. I assume you’re of the same opinion? No, don’t answer that.”

The Inquisitor groaned and hid her face behind her hand, the shake of her shoulders betraying her mirth. “Terrible!” The elf tosses the word at him as she turns to head upwards towards Leliana’s ‘perch’. “I’ll leave you to your work, though surely you must’ve just been wasting all this time with some ancient joke book that was here when we arrived.”

“That’ll teach you to ask me silly questions. Help you design a dress indeed. Ridiculous.” He shifted position slightly, pulling out the book whose spine had been rudely prodding him in the back. “Also I’m afraid Solas has been selfishly hoarding all of the joke books, couldn’t you tell? Precious artefacts that they are. Off with you then.” He shooed Lavellan with the book in his hand before glancing at the cover. More Chantry dribble, no doubt the most interesting thing it contained was whatever had been added by the wit that had been defacing most of the books in his section. He was surprised he’d not caught them in the act yet, they had been exceedingly busy. Dorian couldn’t imagine Sera would have spent the amount of time needed up in the library for such an undertaking to have been completed. Not without having made more than just him suspicious at any least. He had an inkling he mostly had her approval anyway, _she_ found him funny at least. Or was she just laughing _at_ him? How did he ever wind up becoming fond of the little terror? He’d been meaning to find some of her drawings so he could compare them, he had a collection of evil Tevinter caricatures that would ‘mysteriously’ appear upon his door impaled there by an arrow, one time he had been in bed and the thwack of the arrow hitting the door had so startled him from sleep he had gotten tangled in the sheets and near enough set the bloody things on fire thinking himself being attacked.

These little gifts from Sera had started in Haven before… all that trouble, probably because he referred to his lodgings as a hovel. He had been less tolerant at that time, but after their relocation to Skyhold he had found himself _not_ throwing the drawings in the fire for some reason. He also suspected her reason for doing it had changed.

He may as well leave them on the door at this point, he was pretty sure everyone had seen the various declarations of ‘Tevinter Hovel’ displayed there at some point. On the one occasion he had invited The Iron Bull back to his room instead of simply winding up in his he had drunkenly referred to it as his hovel and been embarrassingly amused at his own slip up. Hopeless. Bull would never let him forget. Just as well Bull wasn’t in his room often enough to have found his stash of Sera doodles, yet. Maybe they should be moved elsewhere?

Sera and this library wit could start up an art club. Or perhaps he shouldn’t encourage them. Assuming they weren’t the same person. Letting the book fall open as it willed he was half disappointed to find it clean, of course they would think the _evil_ Tevinter wouldn’t be caught dead with any Chantry paraphernalia! He shoved the book back onto the shelf, making a poor effort of being rough with the blighted thing. He wasn’t in a bad enough mood to go about harassing books quite yet. Full of tripe though they may be.

Plucking up a different book, the one he had been seeking in the first place Dorian retreated to the comfortable chair by the window that of course was _his._ He had claimed it, nevermind that this was a library open to everyone in Skyhold. Everyone knew that this was his chair. Everyone.

Actually that would explain the vandalism that had ruined its predecessor, he hoped this one survived for however long it would take for people to get over the fact that they had a Tevinter mage in residence. Tilting his head down towards the open pages he rolled his eyes upwards to study the Inquisitor that could now be seen by the railings of the floor above where she was conversing with the spy master.

The Inquisitor was pleasant enough, a mage of no small talent though decidedly lacking in world sense. He had heard that Clan Lavellan was supposed to have had more interaction with humans than one normally expected of the Dalish, this was perhaps reflected with her easy going nature and that she had yet to disappear when their backs were turned. But it was Dorian’s opinion that her upbringing had stunted her ability to truly assimilate herself in with the Inquisition despite having been raised up to stand as its leader. She could make the hard decisions but Dorian doubted she truly understood what she was doing or the likely consequences of her choices. Her advisers…. Advised and she generally picked what sounded the most rational, she had admitted as such herself and feared herself horribly naïve in some respects regarding human culture especially. But she served her purpose, Dorian wouldn’t belittle that, fish out of water though that she might be. He was sure she would have rose to the occasion had she of simply been graced with the time to experience the world more outside of her clan before having these reigns thrust upon her. As she was she was simply…. Adequate. Her Keeper must have deemed her competent enough to have sent out in the first place to spy on the conclave, a gathering that had had potential for violence from the very start. But who could have guessed where things would go from there? Certainly not some Dalish elf ‘frolicking’ in the Free Marches, perhaps he was being a _little_ mean. She was what they needed and things were getting done. What did he even know _really_ about the Dalish? She was the first one that he had ever even spoken to. Dorian snorted and turned his attention from his uncharitable thoughts to focus upon his book.

Later that day a messenger stopped by to inform him that he would be expected to accompany the Inquisitor on her next outing to the Exalted Plains the following day. There was a number of rifts that she wished to pay her respects to. He felt it was unusual for such an organisation to always be planning these excursions at the drop of a hat but he assumed the Inquisitor was quite insistent of it in her boredom of being cooped up in the keep. Spacious though it was, it was surely a far cry to what her life must have been like before. It was just as well his days were hardly regimented, Dorian had no scheduled meetings to keep to and could take breaks from the library for any number of tasks as and when he liked. Spending time with all these books was no hardship though it was hardly the grand collection he had been accustomed to for a great deal of his life.

That evening when he left his nook he knew he’d not be returning to it till after their latest trip. As a test he carefully (but not too carefully, wouldn’t want to be obvious) left some unimportant notes out on his table to see if anyone would tamper with them during his absence. Also some that only _looked_ important, wouldn’t do for anyone to think that he himself was of no importance by association. Happy that everything was in order he slipped off to his room to pack. Bull would perhaps be expecting him in the tavern but it wasn’t unusual for Dorian to not show up. Besides. He had to pack. It’s not like he would be waiting for him or anything.


	2. I've gotta hand it to you...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to err on the side of caution and bump the rating up to Mature with this chapter due to injuries and such. If you think I should add any more tags please let me know.
> 
> Thank you to everyone that has been reading and much thanks to those that have left kudos!

Whatever reasoning bandits have for constantly picking fights with people that are clearly far better equipped than themselves was not something that Dorian could fathom nor did he particularly have any mind to put himself in their poorly crafted shoes. He did not presume to know the minds of southern riffraff, putting it down to jealously and leaving it at that seemed reasonable enough. One such group of bandits had chosen to sacrifice themselves to their weapons in any case, it was nothing remarkable, certainly nothing to write home about.

A passing halla had the misfortune of stumbling upon their fight and was struck by a stray bit of lightning quite by accident as it bumbled between two of the bandits in its confusion whilst the Inquisitor was running a string of chain lighting through their bodies. That blasted bit of lightning sparked off a larger chain of decidedly bad luck. A split second later the elf could be seen darting off after the fleeing creature, an unpleasant scent of burning hair lingered in the air as each member of the inner circle practically groaned. The Inquisitor had made a point of always finishing off any animal that got caught in the crossfire, in this instance she hadn’t even waited to end all of the bandits. It wasn’t like they needed the help, but that wasn’t the point. Dorian watched Bull lop off the head of the last remaining foe rather like he were dead heading a flower. The motion of the swing carried him around to face in the direction the Inquisitor had sped off in and quite in keeping with his name he did indeed charge off after her. On another occasion he would have been quietly amused at the image of Bull the gardener treating blooms in a manner much the same as the way he treated every battlefield. Putting his legs to work Dorian sped off after the Qunari with Varric a short distance behind, he only found himself hit in the face once by a branch that pinged back as Bull pushed forward. It must be a new record. The dwarf had no such trouble of course.

The trio arrived just in time to witness what was most definitely not their Inquisitor’s finest moment. A peculiarly muscular looking halla had flipped the elf up into the air with its antlers in a display of aggression uncommonly seen among its kind as far as the mage knew. The moment was highlighted grotesquely by the spluttering light of the anchor that had flared on her outstretched hand. It’s green glow creating a halo of light around the Inquisitor and the halla setting a scene that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a stained glass window with the rift that was now visible behind them both.

With a sickening jerk her body was caught upon the hallas antlers as it contorted itself to push its upper body upwards so as to punch its antlers through her stomach with a viciousness that was surely not right for a halla. Dorian wouldn’t have thought that a hallas antlers were even capable of that sort of penetration had he of ever had cause to consider the possibility before.

The Inquisitor was held aloft but for a moment, her eyes impossibly wide as she hung there gored upon the quite wrongfully beautiful antlers before she slid off them as it tilted its head back towards the ground. One hoof shoving at her to extricate her from one of the tines, widening the smoking wound which seemed oddly blackened and crisp around the edges. The muscles of its neck convulsed as it shook its head, sending smoking bits of gore flying from its antlers and over the anxiously circling herd that jostled at each other nearby. Blood ran down from its antlers to splatter over its obscenely white coat, standing over the fallen elf it turned its head to regard the newcomers. Nostrils flaring it scented the air, blood gathering in its lashes that framed similarly blood coloured eyes that glowed with a fire that did not belong there.

Well, that explained that.

“Fucking demons,” Bull grunted and tightened his grip upon his battleaxe before letting out a roar that Dorian would like to see the demon try and outdo. As if it had read its mind the thing reared up to a let out a bellow that Dorian would have said was the strangest noise he had ever head if he hadn’t of heard the noise the Inquisitor’s mount was known to make on occasion when urged it into a gallop.

The Iron Bull charged at the possessed halla, jumping aside with unexpected dexterity so as to avoid meeting a similar fate to the Inquisitor on the beast’s antlers. Coming at it from the side now he drove it from the prone form of the Inquisitor though Dorian doubted Bull was feeling any more hopefully about her chances of still being alive than he himself was.

The rest of the herd meanwhile had moved to pen them in in a continuously shifting sea of hooves and antlers that made a gradually tightening circle that encompassed themselves and the rift. The damn things were trying to herd them. Dorian spared a glance for Lavellan before casting a barrier over them all. Too little, too late he thought with a wince. Varric was sending out volleys of arrows at the halla in an attempt to drive them back. These ones at least didn’t seem so inclined to attack back but were clearly under the thrall of the demon that was riding the body of the halla currently bucking to pummel Bull’s chest with its rear hooves.

Fire seemed a poor choice against something that had basically seared the Inquisitor’s insides and Ice magic was not Dorian’s preferred method but of course he had dabbled in the basics. He shot out projectiles of ice at the demon halla, timing them to strike between Bull’s swings so as to not hit the Qunari. The halla stumbled and thinking that Bull had it well in hand Dorian took a brief moment to stoop with still half an eye on his surroundings. Sweeping a hand across the Inquisitors face he pushed back her hair, her skin glistened with sweat yet her eyes were dull and vacant as they stared vacantly past him.

Cursing under his breath he reverted back to his native Tevene before turning his full attention once more to the fight. The demons from the nearby rift had now been enticed to join them, it being of some surprise it had taken until now for them to do so.

“Shit,” Varric uttered from besides him and Dorian found that he agreed wholeheartedly.

The circling halla tightened their ring, forcing Dorian to grip the Inquisitor’s sleeve with one hand and drag her away from the stamping hooves which had the perhaps intended effect of moving them closer to the rift.

“Shit,” he heard Bull echoing Varric.

“We can’t win this! Not with that rift there!” Dorian shouted over the roar of a rage demon.

“Well if you fancy roast halla tonight…” the Bull deadpanned. The warrior grabbed for the Inquisitor, taking her from Dorian and slinging her over his shoulder as the demon halla shattered the wall of ice between them and the rift that Dorian had erected. It steamed beneath it as the ground became churned beneath its hooves in a charming mud puddle any Ferelden would have surely cooed over as the heat the beast gave off melted the ice rapidly.

“Just why is that thing not dead yet?!” Dorian exclaimed, ducking beneath a burst of flame that roared towards him. His shield taking the brunt of the heat till he regained enough manna to launch back an attack of his own. Freezing the ground beneath the beast’s hooves the thing stumbled and slipped, cracking its head down on the ice sharply enough for it to catch its lolling tongue between its own snapping teeth. Dorian instantly melted the ice, the thing instantly becoming stuck in the mud and struggled to free itself. The Bull’s battleaxe came down to sever the beast’s head a moment after Dorian shoved his staff blade clear though the halla’s skull.

The Bull flashed Dorian a grin before being knocked off his feet by a terror demon that was arriving late to the party with the second wave.

“Shit,” Dorian too exclaimed, they were clearly rubbing off on him.

The Inquisitor had slipped from the Bull’s shoulder with his stumble and flopped into the mud with a splat that would have no doubt earned it some points from the Fereldens that had arrived to coo at the mud puddle.

Dorian attempted to create an opening in the circling herd via a well-placed fireball but the gap closed up again instantly. Were there this many of them before? Was another demon keeping them here now? The rift maybe?

Bull was now busy, engaged with the terror demon with Varric backing him up. They appeared to have it well in hand. Quickly Dorian knocked back an elfroot potion, combating his earlier burns the demon halla had left him with to remember it by.

The anchor suddenly flared, near startling Dorian to death as it caused the corpse to twitch unnaturally in the mud. Conveniently this sent the mage flinching backwards causing him to narrowly avoid a second terror demon attempting to enthusiastically make his acquaintance by leaping up from the floor where he had been standing a split second before. Thanks Inquisicorpse.

A horror spell sent the creature reeling, what was a terror demon scared of anyway? He probably didn’t want to know.

The first terror demon appeared to have been vanquished, or else it was about to pay him an unwelcome surprise attack. Bull and Varric were now busy with a gaggle of despair demons, Dorian had never seen so many arrows before. Where had the dwarf been keeping them exactly? Every demon was bristling with them and some of them were even on fire causing the blasted things to look like terrifying mutated hedgehogs. Dorian was confident in their ability to dispose of the demons but what then?

Without the anchor to close it the rift would just keep vomiting out the damn things and they would be soon overwhelmed if things kept on as they were. Dorian frowned. _Without_ the anchor?

Judging from its spluttering they had yet to lose that. The Inquisitor was gone, but maybe she could still help?

Before Dorian could examine his own thoughts too closely he sent a tendril of magic out to the Inquisitor’s corpse. A different tactic was called for, drawing forth a spirit Dorian chose to loosely attach it to the corpse. It helped to think of it abstractly, he couldn’t let himself think that he was doing this to his friend. It wouldn’t be good enough to simply let it reform itself in a likeness of the deceased as he was sure this wouldn’t grant it what the true goal of this exercise was. It should be easier to dispel with the loose tie though this meant that it was more of a liability and less useful as a fighter with such a shaky connection to its temporary body. But he was _not_ about to give the spirit permanent lodging thank you very much.

With a disgusting sucking sound the spirit that was now bound to his will pulled the corpse up out of the mud and who knows what else with far less grace than that the former occupant would have managed in life. The damn thing almost fell back into the gloopy mess as it clumsily pulled itself free from the mud with only the loss of one boot, dead and they still couldn’t get the elf to keep her shoes on. No, not her. It wasn’t _her._ She was gone. Dorian felt sick.

Of course there was time for him to be disgusted with himself later. He couldn’t stop now. There needed to be a purpose for this. The thing shambled closer to the rift so ungainly it would have embarrassed a necromancer that didn’t actually value having morals.

Casting a barrier of its own over the corpse Dorian stared wide eyed at _his_ handiwork. Nothing was happening!

One of Varric’s arrows whizzed past and embedded itself in the face of the terror demon that had come back to bother him, the demon crumpled and fell. What was it that Varric had said Solas had done that first time?

Dorian took a step closer to the corpse, electricity dancing off his form as added protection whilst his attention was divided between the fight and figuring out what the fuck he was actually doing. Only one demon remained, one of the despair demon pin cushions and it would surely be defeated any minute now. Dorian needed to find out how to make this thing work _now._

Roughly Dorian grabbed at the corpses wrist and held it aloft, the spirit riding the corpse simply gaped at him forlornly. Or perhaps that was just the mood he himself was in. It had lost an eye at some point as one of the halla had kicked her head whilst she’d lain prone on the ground, she was less expressive than usual with half her face mashed in. This did nothing to improve Dorian’s outlook.

He shook the corpses wrist as if that would shock something out of it but of course nothing happened, it couldn’t be that easy could it? As if performing necromancy on your friend was easy in the first place.

Tentatively he forced his own will into the mark but found it was still missing something, diverting his magic to use the Inquisitor’s body as a conduit he instead multi-tasked. Splitting his attention between channeling his willpower through the corpse and directing the spirit within to brush against the anchor it seemed to flinch as if this hurt it. Suddenly it was gone, the corpse was no longer holding itself upright and Dorian unready for this was dragged down with it as it fell. For a moment Dorian missed that something else was happening, he groaned. Lids closed against a bright green glow that shone through them.

“Dorian!” He felt another presence at his back before a large hand that could only belong to Bull clapped down over his own that still clung to the Inquisitor’s wrist. Feeling his hand being urged back up into the air Dorian forced his eyes back open. Staring at the familiar green light that erupted from the corpses hand as it drew a line between them and the rift he shuddered.

Bull was crouched with his lips by Dorian’s ear. “I’m not going to pretend this isn’t creepy as shit…. Because it is.”

Dorian crumpled, already having stern words with himself for what he had done.  Before he could be any more self-deprecating the rift was closed. The corpse juddered as the anchor gave a final sounding splutter that pushed Dorian back and into Bull’s arms as the corpse slipped away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could have been pretty dark if someone else was writing it.
> 
> I had planned to call it done at this point but now that I've written it it doesn't feel right to. So, one more chapter.


	3. Don't Bite The Hand That Feeds

It had seemed like a _moment_. Or it had the potential to be one, if they were real and not just something nauseating used to pad out those books that Cassandra likes so much. Something significant that Dorian didn’t know what to do with. Didn’t know if he even wanted it at all, whatever _it_ was.

Shoving at Bull’s arms the comforting solidity of them fell away without any resistance against being pushed. Dorian lurched up to his feet with about as much grace as the Inquisitor’s reanimated corpse had had.

His eyes of course strayed towards the corpse in question, sucking in a harsh breath then struggling to expel it Dorian clapped his hand to his mouth as exactly what he had done overwhelmed him.

“I’ll take care of her,” Bull spoke from behind him, his voice softer than normal as if he thought he might spook the mage, as it seemed he already had. Dorian appreciated the lack of platitudes.

He couldn’t watch him pick up the body, see her arms swing loose and languid as if she were merely sleeping. Convincing enough if not for the mess of her head. There was a lot of blood but that wasn’t that unusual for any of them in recent times. The memory of their last conversation held within the library chose that moment to make itself known to him, the one where he had jokingly offered to raise her a tailor from the dead. A choked laugh caught in his throat as it mutated into a sob. He’d raised her something all right, just not a fucking tailor.

Nervously his eyes darted to the side and spied the departing halla herd. A few of the injured appeared to be being supported between healthier individuals, they seemed to have a destination in mind. The local Dalish camp if their direction was clue enough. Off to tell tales on them no doubt. Perhaps they’d need a mediator.

Many dead halla also littered the area. They should be burned, his fingers itched with uncalled fire. Never mind that it would be a waste, use could be found for the pelts and other things. Was it just the light of the setting sun or did one of the bodies look golden? Huh.

Later, around a hastily erected campfire Dorian sat alone. Sour thoughts clouding his mind that neither of the others had made much attempt to keep him company, never mind that he had rebuked them when they’d tried. Huddled beneath a too thin blanket hanging sloppily off one shoulder Dorian prodded listlessly at the contents of his bowl. Halla stew of course, what else?

No scouts were in sight, not even a requisitions officer to hover around after the corpse. A corpse currently enjoying its very own tent, such extravagance. They had elected against returning to one of the main camps between their recent misfortune and upcoming return to Skyhold. Varric though had been dispatched earlier to send off a discrete bird to Leliana in order to break the bad news. He had returned not too long ago, Dorian trusted he had done a decent job lying to the scouts. He’d certainly had plenty of practice. Calling it bad news was a bit of an understatement. If Dorian were feeling more himself he would have inserted himself into the writing of the letter but as it was he had no idea how tactfully his part in the whole affair had been written. Dorian’s mouth twisted subtly as he wondered if his already shaky welcome had been worn out.

Actually it was the Iron Bull that had made the call on keeping quiet about the Inquisitor’s death for now. Dorian hadn’t felt like arguing, never mind that Bull had made a convincingly sound argument to justify it. Morale was a powerful thing, especially in regards to people looking up to someone being referred to as the Herald of Andraste whether she had accepted the title or not.

The log that Dorian was seated upon rocked slightly, startling him from his thoughts with a jump that almost had him falling back off his perch if not for the hand suddenly at his back steadying him. That done it drew away and the owner of the hand made no comment as Dorian would normally have expected of the Bull. The mage’s brows arched as he studied him, was the Qunari tiptoeing around him? He normally seemed so sure of how he should be treating the mage however much Dorian liked to disagree with his assessment. It was strange to see him being tentative.

“Ah, so this is where you ask me how I’m doing.” _As the Inquisitor would have done_ he appended on mentally with some bitterness. Each word came out clipped and precise as finally he discards the uneaten meal and resettles his blanket around his shoulders. A chill that the fire was refusing to alleviate had dug its claws in and did nothing for his mood.

“Have we never talked before now?”  The Bull scratched at the rough skin just below his eye patch, slipping a finger under to readjust the patch slightly.

“I’d be offended if you could forget any conversation with me. Except that one. Whatever you’re thinking. You may forget that one.” Dorian narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the Qunari seated besides him.

Bull affected an affronted look, he had a feeling he was copying the motions from himself. It was unnerving how much attention the man paid to the most useless mannerisms. Dorian was sure he pulled it off better in any case.

“I didn’t think your stink eye could get any better,” the Bull said as he helped himself to Dorian’s discarded bowl.

Dorian dug his elbow into the Bull’s side, they weren’t as pointy as his mothers but they got the job done. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Bull shot him a look, “how about-“ Dorian cut him off before he could continue that sentence. “Don’t.”

“You going to keep on doing that?”

Dorian shrugged and glanced across the fire to see that whilst Varric was still there he wasn’t paying them any attention.

“How can you even eat that?” He wrinkled his nose as he eyed the stew.

Bull tilted his head to the side, mindful of his horns and Dorian’s head. “Yeah, you’re right. Needs some spice. That demon halla maybe? That would have given it a real kick.” Dorian stared at him incredulously before catching on that he was joking. Shoving at the man’s side Dorian attempted to dislodge him from the log but he only succeeded in frustrating himself with the Qunari’s lack of movement.

“Things were going south. Don’t beat yourself up about today.” The sudden change of subject took Dorian by surprise. He had been tense, expecting to be made to talk about it but Bull had still managed to catch him with it in an unguarded moment. Whatever expression appeared on his face he banished it immediately but probably not soon enough. Tilting his chin up the mage folded his arms imperiously; it didn’t really work with Bull seeing as how he was taller than himself.

“The Iron Bull has spoken. I no longer need worry about having morals.” Dorian scoffed and moved to slide further along the log, realising this would take him further from the other’s warmth he ends up awkwardly shuffling instead and ends up closer than he had been in the first place. _Kaffas_.

Finishing the stew Bull casts aside the bowl and seems to take Dorian’s movement as some sort of acceptance because he moves his hand to rest on the log behind where Dorian’s seated, the mage’s back now braced against his sturdy arm.

“Eh, I did say it was creepy as shit didn’t I? But you know…. Mages. You knew that you were going to be kicking yourself afterwards, right? You didn’t even pull out the worst thing you could have from your sleeve.”

Dorian snorted. A few things came to mind and a few particular people.

“Right. You see? I didn’t notice the Inquisitor with any fangs or nothing.” The Bull shrugged. “You normally have those… see through guys running around, why?”

“They smell better?”

“Uh, huh. So, tell me. Is that easier or harder to do than to have the corpse up and dancing around?”

“Harder. Normally… I didn’t really do it properly with the Inquisitor so it was a bit more complicated.”

“Why not properly?”

“It didn’t belong there. I wasn’t about to shove a spirit in there without any precautions against it deciding it wanted to stay.”

“You’re terrible at being an evil Vint.”

“I….Yes. I suppose.”

“Fuck it,” Bull’s hand disappeared inside his voluminous trousers without warning and apparently no shame.

“…Is that appropriate?” Dorian gawped at him.

Bull grinned coyly and raised his chin. Oh great, he was copying him again. “I’m appalled, Dorian.” Without further ado his hand reappeared clutching a scratched looking flask. He waggled the flask under the mage’s nose letting him catch a whiff off it even before it had been opened.

“Vishante kaffas, what do you have in there?” Dorian asked somewhat suspicious of anything offered to him by Bull in a tankard let alone a dodgy looking flask.

“Boss found it. She wanted to give it to Solas to see if it would strip the paint from the walls but I figured that was a waste.”

“Is that supposed to make it sound appealing?”

Twisting off the cap Bull took a swig of the contents before holding it out to Dorian. “So, you don’t fancy a drink?”

Dorian eyed the man, he hadn’t cringed when tasting it but that didn’t really tell him much. This was the Iron Bull.

“Oh, give it here.” He paused with it almost to his mouth, “I’ll thank you if I survive.” He knocked the thing back letting the liquid run down his throat. He blinked, handing it back to the Bull. “That… wasn’t what I was expecting.” Dorian had been expecting to at least lose the use of his throat but despite the bizarre smell he felt warmth running through him.

“Me neither to be honest. Bit disappointing really.” The Bull shrugged before placing it down within Dorian’s reach. “You’re not dead I see.”

“I’m getting there….” Dorian sighed before helping himself to the flask once again, perhaps he was a little disappointed as well. The mage held it aloft and grinned lopsidedly. “To not being as big an asshole as I could have been.”

Taking a deep swig he deposited the flask on the floor before glancing briefly to the other side of the fire to ascertain that Varric had disappeared into his own tent at some point. Reaching up Dorian grabbed at one of the Qunari’s horns to encourage his head down towards him. Little urging was needed and in short time Dorian was pressing a kiss to the corner of the Bull’s lips. He spoke aloud there in case the silent thanks hadn’t been obvious enough, lips fractionally against the skin as he spoke. “Thank you, Bull.” For more than just the drink, he thought he would understand that though.

The Qunari grinned softly, capturing the mage’s lips for a more thorough kiss. Dorian eventually pulled away to settle against the Bull’s side. “No problem, no problem at all” Bull said before ruining it all. “Just keep that shit out of the bedroom.”

Dorian’s magically charged shove did push him off the log that time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda feel like in game that we don't get to hear the opinions of a lot of characters on necromancy because blood magic and basically all things Tevinter overshadow it. Cassandra thinks it's creepy. I assume that's the general consensus but it's acceptable 'cause at least it's not blood magic? Maybe I've missed something.
> 
> This conversation was kinda awkward for me because you don't just talk and suddenly your whole viewpoint changes instantly and I didn't think Bull would exactly have the opposite viewpoint needed for if that were to happen. Not like he's an expert on the subject anyway. So, 'not as big an asshole as you could have been' seemed the best outcome from this conversation really.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope I've not embarrassed myself too much.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a quite a while since I've shared my writing with anyone and this is my first fanfic so please let me know what you think.
> 
> I'm hoping I've not butchered poor Dorian!


End file.
